


Son Coeur

by rebeldesigns (rebeldesire)



Category: 90210
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebeldesire/pseuds/rebeldesigns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Son Coeur, or, The Five Times Liam Kissed Naomi and One Time He Didn't. Only when it's too late does he see: his heart has really been her heart all along. Naomi/Liam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Son Coeur

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own neither 90210 nor the characters recognizable here.

_**. 01 .** _

_White woman with numberless dreams / I bring you my passionate rhyme._

He thinks she's kind of hot, but in a way that screams Type A queen bitch with self-esteem issues, only useful for arm candy or the occasional fuck. She looks older, at least old enough to buy all those appletinis she's been nursing, but it's not old in the sense of aging. It's her eyes—they're more mature and cynical than they should be for a woman so young. The irony is not lost on him when he asks to see her identification—it's bogus, because anyone who can afford to stay alone in the Executive suite for an entire week couldn't possibly be underage, but he does it anyway—and he's so thrown off by the offbeat allure of her answering rueful smile that he says "never mind" before he can stop himself.

Besides, any misgivings at not carding her are out the window when she leaves behind an exorbitantly generous tip before she walks away, the scent of Thierry Mugler and old money left in her wake.

She comes back the next day, and this time he's prepared. He throws on his most charming smile ( _the one he usually reserves for the wealthiest cougars)_ , complete with suggestive tilt of eyebrow, and welcomes her back to the bar by drawling, "the usual, Miss Clark?" as he flourishes a spotless martini glass.

A gentle rosy hue settles on her cheeks when he says her name and he makes a mental note to try and get her first name somehow. The better she thinks she knows him, the more money he'll get in gratuity.

When she holds out his tip ( _two crisp tens folded neatly in half_ ), he presses his advantageous proximity by engulfing her small wrist with his hand, tugging her forward until she's leaning bodily over the bar. She lets out a small sound of alarm but allows herself to be herded. A blond curl tumbles out of her bun and sweeps across her cheek; he barely resists the urge to tuck it back behind her ear.

Instead, he skillfully tugs the folded bills out of her grasp and turns her hand over, pressing his lips to the center of her palm, not once taking his eyes off her face. Surprise and the stirrings of lust bloom on her face like a flower unfurling its petals in the sun. He can feel her pulse jackhammer beneath his thumb and forefinger as they close about her cool wrist. He learned quite awhile ago that kissing the palm is quite a bit more sensual to a woman than the back of the hand because of how many more nerves the palms and fingers possessed. It's almost fascinating to watch how, once again, science prevails: her eyes become half-lidded and dark as his lips brush along her heart line and he knows it's mission accomplished.

"You can keep that one on me," he intones, curling her fingers up in a fist around the spot where his lips grazed her skin. "Hope to see you tomorrow, Miss Clark." His gaze slides down a little bit and he rests his eyes on her low-cut blouse, not too long to be considered lecherous and not too short to be considered accidental. Offering her one last lopsided smile, he sweeps the martini glass and its coaster off the oaken bar and turns back to his cleaning.

"It's Naomi," she says faintly to his turned back, hand still curled tight into a fist around his kiss. She stumbles out of the bar and Liam leans back on his elbows as he watches her go, smirking and shaking his head.

That was _far_ too easy.

_**. 02 .** _

_Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair / And dream about the great and their pride._

He's still pissed at her about the champagne incident but it's almost _too cute_ how she's panting after him like a puppy that doesn't yet realize it doesn't want to be played with. So that's partially why he doesn't kick her to the curb when he first sees her there in the parking lot. It's his first day back to high school in a long time and, what the hell, he's feeling chivalrous.

She's strewn all over the hood of his new paint job, a leggy sprawl of limbs and loose curls that he genuinely does find appealing. The effect is ruined somewhat when she opens her mouth, however. After she's said her piece he blows her off because frankly, while _he_ may still be the mysterious bartender to her, _she's_ become the snotty rich chick who got him fired and reintegrated into Beverly Hills' educational system. And right now, he has places to be and things to do and she is definitely _not_ included in any of the above.

He doesn't push it when she invites herself along for the ride. He figures, once he's through with what he's going to do tonight, she'll be scared off and will leave him the hell alone. He doesn't really expect much out of this Beverly Hills poster child, nothing except lots of whining and snide comments.

"Faster!" She breathes, clutching his elbow and laughing. Her laugh is beautiful, and her whole face lights up as he floors it.

"Faster!" She commands again, hair whipping in the breeze as he pushes 105, 110. She turns to him, smiling that secretly pleased smile of hers, and he wonders for a second what it would be like if those long legs of hers were wrapped around his waist, her hands gripping his elbows just like this while ordering "faster!" in that breathy voice of hers. He nearly spins out just thinking about it, barely making it across the finish line ahead of his competitor.

He takes his eyes off of her for a second, just _one second_ and already she's gotten herself into trouble. It's all celebrations and beer after his successful race, so she wanders off to grab a bottle of Coors while he's in the midst of being congratulated by his fellow racers.

She's not his girlfriend so he really shouldn't be so pissed off when he sees a guy who could easily be in his thirties chatting her up and drooling all over her beer. He grits his teeth and his eyes narrow, hands curling into fists when Naomi makes a move to leave and the guy grabs her arm, then makes a move for her ass.

He sees red. He's been told he has anger issues, and he knows he should probably get counseling, but all of that is suddenly irrelevant as he grabs the nearest weapon he can lay his hands on ( _a crowbar_ ) and makes his way over to her and the bearded creep. It's probably not even the guy's car, but he smashes the window anyway, just to make a point.

"Liam!" she screams, and he has a small moment of regret when he realizes just how much he's scaring her.

"Come on, Naomi. Let's get out of here." He grips her wrist tightly and, tossing the crowbar at the feet of the stunned man before them, drags her bodily from the scene of the crime.

The car ride back is silent. He sneaks a glance at her when they're stopped at a light on Beecher, but her hair is covering her face as she looks out the window. He grips the steering wheel more tightly and guns the engine. They make it back to the parking lot in record time.

He pulls into the parking space and shifts it into neutral, waiting.

After a moment, "You were right. That, uh, that wasn't my scene," she mutters.

Her shoulders slump forward. She seems disappointed, eyes darting left, right, anywhere but his face, and she gives him one of those half-smiles that doesn't quite meet her eyes and then turns to go.

He doesn't really know what possesses him to kiss her, to lead her on or even allow her to get her hopes up, but there is something instinctive in the way he grabs her around the neck and crushes his mouth to her lips. It surprises even him, and he recovers by dominating her mouth completely. She makes a small whimper in the back of her throat and he breaks away before he does something he'll regret in the morning.

She looks at him, wide-eyed, and he leans across her to open the passenger-side door. This is the second time she's walked away weak-kneed from his kisses and he makes sure she's shut the door and safely standing on the sidewalk before he peels out of there, leaving her alone in the empty parking lot, her reflection growing smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror.

_**. 03 .** _

_Why, what could she have done, being what she is? / Was there another Troy for her to burn?_

"Liam."

God, he loves how she says his name.

He nips at her neck with a little more force than usual, leaving a cherry-red welt along her clavicle that will develop into the king of all hickeys. She lets out a noise that's quite possibly a gasp of pain mixed in with a growl of pleasure; he feels the stirrings of something like pride over the fact that she's turning into quite the little sadist under his tutelage.

He has her pinned against a tree. They're being showered in leaves as he thrusts, and he's sure that her back must be rubbed raw by the bark digging into her spine, but she's writhing against him like it's the best damn time of her life and it kinda makes him feel good about himself. Sex outdoors wasn't exactly on the schedule for today, but compared with being stuck building houses for Habitat all day, this is a pleasant change of pace.

They get dressed quickly, skillfully eluding each others' gazes. Naomi hops on one foot as she slides her left foot into one of her boots. Pulling twigs and leaves out of her hair as she walks, she circumvents the tree and the area around it, looking for the boot's twin.

He catches sight of it, lying at the base of a small wild raspberry bush, and he bends down to grab it at the exact same time that she does the same thing. Their fingers brush against each other for a millisecond and she recoils from his touch.

He felt it too. White-hot and burning between the two of them. He grips the creamy calfskin boot that probably cost more than his entire wages working at the hotel bar, finally standing up and holding it out to her.

"Thanks," she says haltingly, grabbing her boot from his hands and sliding it over her calves. He watches her lazily, smirk curving the edges of his lips and she flushes, smiling into her hair as she casts her eyes downward. She turns into a giggly, flustered pile of mush around him, and he's loath to admit that he loves every damn second of it.

They head off in opposite directions.

He sees the red welt on her neck much later when they're getting on the bus to go back to West Bev, and when the realization hits him, he stops dead in his tracks, causing other people in line to bump into him and exclaim in surprise and annoyance.

He sees that mark on her neck and the first thing he thinks of is _mine_.

He's marked her, subconsciously staked his claim on her and he'll be damned if he sees her covering it with concealer next Monday. He tells her as such on the bus ride back that evening and she mutters something incoherent as she nestles further into the crook of his neck, apparently exhausted by today's escapades. He doesn't like public displays of affection, especially this clingy stuff that she likes to do after they have sex, as if it means something.

Which it doesn't.

He keeps reminding himself of this as he rests his cheek on the crown of her head, his eyelids fluttering closed. His last thought before drifting off is observing the irony: they've had sex, but this is the very first time that they are actually _sleeping_ together.

And you know what? It's kind of… nice.

_**. 04 .** _

_Never give all the heart, for love / Will hardly seem worth thinking of._

It's their first legitimate date as a "couple" ( _he uses air quotes because he hates the word and all its sense of commitment_ ) and he's still trying to decide between his royal blue or his cornflower blue button-downs. Just the fact that he has been oscillating between shades of blue shirts for the past twenty minutes should be warning enough about the line he is treading when it comes to Naomi. Somewhere, somehow it progressed past the irregular booty call stuff and into more murky waters, waters that include actually _caring_ about one's appearance in the presence of certain people.

He gives up five minutes later and just throws on his usual: white tee shirt, leather jacket, dark Levis, combat boots.

But he makes sure to comb his hair.

She chose the restaurant, of course, which may or may not have been such a fantastic idea because although it seems like _she's_ having a great time, he's not quite sure that his wallet will be commiserating in a few hours when the check comes around.

The restaurant is an ambient little place, full of mood lighting and soft, jazzy music filtering down through the pricey sound system. Of course, it's also as posh as they come, because it's Beverly Hills baby and if you have to ask, you can't afford it. The waitress comes around and hands them their tasseled menus and he sinks further into his seat when he realizes that the prices of the appetizers alone are worth an arm, a leg, _and_ a firstborn.

"You're miserable."

He looks up from the tablecloth, into which he was imagining disappearing ( _because he hates these kinds of places, he really,_ _ **really**_ _does_ ), to see Naomi biting her lip.

_Yes._ "No, no. No! Of course I'm not. This is…" He searches for a word. _Asinine. Expensive. Ostentatious._ "…nice."

She gives him a dry look and he avoids her gaze by downing the entire glass of complimentary ice water in front of him. It sort of stings on the way down and he wishes it was something a little stronger and a touch more alcoholic in nature.

"Liam," she says softly, in a tone that forces him to look up into those kaleidoscope eyes despite himself. Her hand settles over his and she crinkles her nose a bit as she smiles. "Let's get outta here. I've been wanting to go for a drive lately anyway."

She throws a fifty on the counter and grabs him by the collar, and he allows himself to be dragged to the valet, who tosses him his keys.

Impetuously he grabs her and, before opening the door, brings her face to his for a scorching kiss. It's all tongues and biting and open mouths and when he pulls back they're both panting.

"What was that for?" she murmurs, still eyeing his lips like she wants more.

"Because I felt like it," he answers shortly. He opens her door and she slides in, giving him a nice glimpse of one long sleek leg as her slinky little dress rides up.

So instead, he introduces her to a little thing called carbs ( _via a greasy pizza parlor called_ Vinny's) and she introduces him to the art of communicating with his eyes, something she says he does all the time without knowing it.

They cast each other coy looks over a pizza margherita for the rest of the night, and when he drives her home, she gives him a thank you hug instead of a kiss. For some reason, the hug is more intimate than anything they have shared thus far.

She says goodbye, but not with her eyes. Her eyes say, "Need you. Want you. Love you."

His eyes simply say, "I know."

_**. 05 .** _

_But I, being poor, have only my dreams / I have spread my dreams under your feet._

"I mean, you like this kind of stuff, right?" He asks, a thread of uncertainty now in his voice. "Like, flowers and shit? Corsages are a prom thing, I thought, so… Here, take it." He brandishes the orchid at her like a poisonous spider and she rolls her eyes but smiles. Behind them, people are emerging from limos and strutting down the red carpet, posing along the way.

"You're supposed to put it on my wrist," she gently chides him, and slides her hand into his to guide him. Because that's always how she is with him: tender and caring, like he's the patient and she's the doctor. It's a role she's been taking on more and more frequently. To the world she's a stuck-up bitch, but to Liam she is much, much more.

His heart's pounding and his palms are sweaty and it's ridiculous because it's not like he's giving her an engagement ring or anything. So why does this moment, when he slides the elastic band over her fingers ( _entwined with his_ ) and onto her slender wrist, feel so momentous? His hands rest on her arm and they just stay there like that for a moment, both unsure of where to go from here.

"Thank you," Naomi remembers to say ( _he wonders how long it took him to teach her that particular phrase_ ), and her eyes flit up to meet his. "I mean it."

"Yeah." He says, and lifts one shoulder noncommittally, already uncomfortable with the situation.

"Well, then," Naomi coughs, nodding her head towards the red carpet awaiting them. "You, uh, ready to greet the paparazzi?"

Liam groans and runs a hand through his hair, already convinced that tonight was such a bad idea. He turns to go, but halts when he feels her hand on his elbow ( _always on his elbow when it's with her_ ).

"Hey," she says, a bit of bossiness seeping into her tone already. "I'm not done with you." And she bends forward and kisses him on the cheek.

He leans into her, turning his face until his lips are aligned with hers. His hands slide down the length of her bare back and she shivers in his hands, making those mewling noises in the back of her throat that drive him crazy.

They dance on one of the Hollywood sets later that night and it's something close to perfection, even though he hates to admit it. More than anything, he wants to remember these moments, moments with her, because with her he is the happiest he's been in a long, long time.

In these moments, he has no regrets.

_**. 06 .** _

_I'd have him love the thing that was / Before the world was made._

He kisses her like he would kiss Naomi.

It's not easy to pretend. She's all wrong to him, making him halfhearted in his attentions even as he forces himself to be enthusiastic. She's a tad too short, having to tiptoe to reach the shoulders that Naomi easily draped her arms over. Her hair's too loose and slightly coarse from sun and sea salt, whereas Naomi's would be coiffed and sleek, cascading over her shoulders in those ringlets he liked so much to yank, simply because he knew how much she hated it. And she tastes all wrong, like those cherry lollipops that she's always toying with when she's around him. It reminds him vaguely of cough medicine, but he hasn't the heart to tell her that he much prefers to kiss girls with a mint-flavored tongue ( _Naomi always chewed those peppermint Altoids before he kissed her_ ).

But she's almost as good, even if he feels like he's always one step off beat when they're together. The important thing is that he can pretend with her, this pseudo-Naomi, and by closing his eyes he sees green eyes instead of brown. He feels curly hair instead of straight. He feels soft, cool, reserved but passionate Naomi, not hard, warm, loud and outspoken Ivy.

It's not easy, but he can pretend.


End file.
